


As it is Written

by PizzaTurtle



Category: Death Note, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PizzaTurtle/pseuds/PizzaTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious, silent man leaves Sherlock Holmes with a peculiar cryptogram, 'Find the detective L'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rough Transcription

**Author's Note:**

> Been meaning to write this for a while, and I'm excited to start this crossover!
> 
> Disclaimer: Naturally, neither Death Note nor Sherlock are mine.
> 
> Not beta'd.

#  **“Report to your superior for your next assignment, Franklin.”**

The Bosnian man looked firmly at the woman who had just addressed him, she was new. Her bright blonde, almost stereotypical, pigtails conveying that she probably did not belong here. Her French manicured nails clicked as she hit the oak desk to which she was sitting before she arose. Her clopping heels, clashing against the marble floor. It made him cringe. Her shining white teeth did not distract from the piece of lime green gum she was flicking around her mouth. It had become apparent that they didn’t really trust her; for they had told her to address him as his alias, he realised as she clopped towards him, her beige satchel resting on her shoulder as she began to walk forward. Sighing, he glanced over her tight three-quarter length sleeved shirt, scanning his eyes at the navy and black striped tie around her neck before ending his gaze at her name badge, Alicia. He sighed; she looked about 16, probably fresh out of doing her GCSEs, and straight into an internship.

He grabbed her wrist sharply before she walked off, trying to look calm enough not to scare her witless before he whispered, “Quit this job, Alicia, you are much too young to be involved here.” Her eyes both widened and appeared rounder, making her seem far too innocent still, almost preppy. Franklin turned and walked towards the lift, where he pressed the button for the top floor. As the doors closed, he watched Alicia making a careful sprint towards to the entrance. He wondered if she had left it too late, he hoped that she would make it.

Upon reaching the top floor, the lift rang out with a ding. He nodded to the suited guards either side of the door, it seemed as if they were expecting him. The lavish lobby before his destination held an impressive 7,200-litre fish tank. With a shark, named Nashers. Nevertheless, it was a small shark in comparison to the ones you see at a Sea Life Centre, but it was a shark. To say it irked him slightly was an understatement. The shark was surrounded by marble coating the floors, walls and ceiling. Potted plants littered the place and the odd antique chair sat against the far wall. He walked over to the elegant, mahogany door, and was allowed in immediately.

The office he entered was sleek, minimal but alarming. The far end wall was completely glass, almost so you could survey London. In front, where a glass desk and a burgundy chair sat in place. Persian rugs lay as a pathway over the marble flooring. Venturing off the rugs, the marble flooring led to the walls either side, painted white and held ornate paintings. His superior, sat on the only chair - waiting.

“Your next assignment is to deliver this letter.” came a firm but chirpy voice from his boss as he pushed the letter forward on his desk, as if highlighting the matter. His wrinkled hand pulled back slowly. He was wearing a tailored, black pinstripe five piece suit with a white shirt. His eyebrows were harsh and defining, his once black hair was mostly various shades of grey and his shocking green eyes looked scornful but playful.

“Of course, sir.”

“Then why did you tell my little plaything to leave if you are this obedient?” the chirpiness lost, and a slight smile was replaced by a menacing scowl.

“I apologise, sir. She was young, not yet 18, perhaps you could pursue her at a later venture?”

An eyebrow raise greeted Franklin. He gulped. However, the shorter, sitting man, laughed. It wasn’t a full laugh, it was much more a chuckle, but it definitely counted as a laugh.

“Your punishment for a cocky comment is silence. If I hear you’ve spoken a word during this assignment, your tongue will be cut out. You will take this envelope from my desk and deliver it to 221b Baker Street. You will walk. You will wear only the clothing provided, go to the 4th floor and ask for the Pal Zileri. Never talk to my interns again, understand?”

“Yes, sir”

“Dismissed.”

Franklin promised himself to obey the orders to the word. No one disobeyed Holy Peter. Especially not from his tower.  
________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock Holmes was sat in his chair, poised in position, glancing over at the fellow who had just graced his doorway. Neither of them had yet to have spoken. The man was tall, but just under 6 foot, European, medium build and late forties. Greying hair, and an ageing face prominently making sure he looked older than what he was. Italian shoes, and a crisp, sleek Pal Zileri suit totalling around £1,400. Sherlock noted that Mycroft brought him one for an event once. This man, unlike others whom had entered 221b, knew exactly what he wanted and seemed to want to do it discreetly. He offered no insult to Sherlock's intelligence, he would tell him nothing meaningless. Locking eye contact as the man had sat down into John's chair opposite; he brought his hands up together, fingertips resting on the tip of his chin.

The man reached into his navy suit, towards an inner left pocket and pulled out an envelope. Nodding to Sherlock as he placed it on the table between them. The younger Holmes began to wonder how this man knew about the regular bugs that were placed within his home, and began to perhaps believe that he understood the importance of what was to come. The chase. After picking up the envelope, he slipped a finger into the seal and slowly ripped it open. Inside there was naught but a short cipher. By the time he had looked back up the man was gone. Moving to his computer he laid the cipher next to him and began to think.

**"rvxn ibp npiplivhp z"**

Soon enough, he had exhausted the most basic ciphers from the top of his head. Why would the man not have spoken? What was more important than the words? His clothes. The £1,400 Italian suit. He flicked onto Google, '1400 Italian Cipher', and the first link he was greeted with was "Renaissance Dress in Italy: 1400-1500". Quickly eliminating that link, he changed his method. A rhythmic thumping ventured up the stairs, he waited until the 13th stair was reached; "John, 2nd shelf down, 3rd book from the left."

"Another case?" The military man replied, too lazy to complain.

"Do you have it?"

"Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, I've only just got in!"

"Do you have the book?" He demanded once more, using a more firm tone. He needed this book. It landed softly on the desk next to him.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. It was just over a metre away!"

He didn't take the bait. Instead, he opened it, and there was his answer right in the first chapter. Italian Leon Battista Alberti's, Alberti cipher disk. Made in 1467. He did another quick search, Pal Zileri suits, and there it was. The precise suit he just saw. Italian. £1467. He almost admired this hint, although he was getting riled that he needed such an indication.

**"rvxn ibp npiplivhp z"**

He glanced at the cryptogram, and then the cipher disk. He translated the first word easily and realised he didn't even have to mentally move around the cipher. It was just as the image in front of him, easy legwork for him - but definitely slacking on their part.

**"find t1e detective l"**

He knew he was right when the Alberti cipher doesn't include the letter H as a letter to input in, so occasionally these letters could be used as numbers. The numbers inputted into this cipher, come out as letters, thus making it slightly harder to translate. Mentally replacing the '1' as an 'H', 'Find the detective L' he muttered to himself. Reaching for the familiar search engine one more time, he quickly discovered that no detectives named 'L' came from any search. Smirking to himself about his bright ideas, he text his elder brother, Mycroft.

_"I have found the location of the Detective L_   
_SH"_

He wondered if his brother would actually fall for his dirty trick. He looked around the room for John, so he could gloat, and found both an empty living area and kitchen. However, with a hint of the scent of Yorkshire tea, and the sound of the shower.

_"I don't believe you._   
_MH"_

He grimaced. It was worth a try though. It set him an interesting challenge. Especially if Mycroft, his own brother, believed he couldn't find him.

_"Do not try. He could have you killed._   
_Or worse._   
_MH"_

Huffing, he threw his phone back down. Definitely seems like a challenge. How can one person be so elusive? Chuckling, he thought about how elusive he, himself could be seen as, to certain people. Mycroft however, always found him in the end. Unfortunately. Sometimes, even Lestrade could find him, if he had not tried hard enough. He thought back to the middle aged man who had entered his flat. He did not speak. Was he a mute? Did he know about Mycroft's bugs? The man had certainly given Sherlock a lot of clues. He wasn't sure if he liked that, he felt a bit spoon-fed. He could have worked out the cipher, maybe not as quickly as he did have, but he could have worked it out - even if he had to make an enigma himself. He hummed around the term 'Detective L' for a while. Was that a name? L? He did a search under Italian Births and Deaths - no records for an 'L'. He tried British, Irish, French, Russian, Spanish, Polish, American, Brazilian, Chinese, Japanese, Australian and New Zealand's records before he halted his search. He, of course, found nothing. If the man was that easy to find, surely someone with that expensive suit would be able to find him, himself?

He leaned forward toward the laptop with a hint of determination, flicking back to Google, he coined the translated cryptogram into the search engine. News hit of 6 hours ago, ‘The Great Detective L - solving a case in LA?’. Brushing through the article he found out little to no information, there wasn’t even proof he was in the country. Turns out not even a picture on the Internet.

“Sherlock, god dammit, your phones ringing. It’s Lestrade” Sherlock didn’t even register John entering the room; he was in his dressing gown, hair dripping from a shower. The phone must have been ringing for a while.

“Take the call.” He muttered, burying himself with yet another Google search. He began to think that maybe he should enter his mind palace and see if he’s heard the name before. He was sure he was missing something.

“Sherlock, there has been a murder, we’re needed in Bexley. Anderson’s off sick, so you don’t need to worry about him.”

Sherlock glared into the laptop as he slammed the screen down, to which John cringed as he began to run towards his room, presumably to get dressed. Sherlock heading over to his coat and sunk into it, before wrapping his scarf around his neck, ritually. John joined him after he was left waiting impatiently for a few minutes and they both hopped down the stairs in silence.

The rest of the journey to Bexley was made in an equal amount of silence; Sherlock was deep in thought about his peculiar day. John, just letting him think, and enjoying the fact that his flat mate was engrossed in whatever suited him. After paying for the taxi and ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, they headed over to Lestrade huddled with SOCOs in an unkempt garden. The forensic team quickly moved away when they arrived.

“Found two hours ago, bodies fresh. Nametag says Alicia; she was coming home from work and didn’t even make it to the front door. She’s 16, barely out of high school”

The body lie there prone, half on the pavement, half buried in half a metre of grass and weeds. Her chin resting a foot in the air on a cement step, the fall must have happened post-mortem or whilst she was unconscious due to the fact she hadn’t moved her arms to brace a fall that snapped her neck. John kneeled down next to the body as Sherlock looked in the surrounding grass.

“Sherlock, look, a puncture mark in her temple.” John’s professional glaze tinted slightly with sadness, at this young girls defenceless pose.

“Lestrade, did you comb the grass here?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

“Yes that was done by Forensics.” Lestrade looked over annoyed, in an almost singsong voice.

“Then you need to send them back to training, even Anderson could have spotted this nail” Lestrade’s head snapped to where Sherlock was standing as he motioned for the SOCOs to come closer. A six-inch brand new nail coating in what appeared to be blood up to at least four inches. Sherlock went over to the body and confirmed that the wound to her temple was the same size.

“Why would you remove the murder weapon, only to discard it next to the body?” Lestrade wondered out loud.


	2. A Good Think On The Matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the rather late chapter, I will aim to do one or two a month if possible. However, due to my final year as an undergraduate this is troublesome. 
> 
> Thank you for the comments, kudos and the bookmarks I have received, these force me to acknowledge my story and therefore encourage me to write more!
> 
> A little note before to state that I have adapted the year of the LABB cases. They finished as the story started. The story begins in 2014. If you haven't read the LABB book, I highly recommend it, it's a great book!
> 
> edit 29/02/16: fixed the formatting issues, I think

#  **Mr. Sherlock Holmes sat rigidly upon the laboratory chair within the research area of St. Bart’s.**

He’d noticed that Anderson would be back on duty on Monday and given his ignorance and lack of skills – Sherlock, himself, undertook the analysis of the DNA within the blood sample. Polymerase Chain Reaction… He thought it was mundane, but necessary. He would have John do it, however John’s ignorance within this field could suppress Andersons.

 Once he had finished the careful pipetting, he directed the nearest laboratory assistant to deal with the remainder of the Standard Operating Procedure – which he had pushed away in frustration of its presence. Sherlock’s mind had been buzzing with anticipation.  He had looked into the current federal casework in LA, in hopes to find this Detective L and had uncovered approximately six possible, relevant cases.

 Sherlock rested his elbows on the top of the desk in front of him, resting his head on his hands. He zoned out the buzz of a working laboratory; the scuffle and movement of its workers and embraced a silence, he found comforting. There was a few cases in LA, he thought, were more promising than others. There was a heist. A particularly great, “near unsolvable” heist - he huffed. Thinking with more information he could produce more than the culprit at hand, and the particularly expensive painting that had gone missing from a house in Calabasas.

 Another was a particularly vicious spree of murders around LA of people with surprisingly odd names. He was bullied constantly in high school because of his own name, but these, even by Sherlock’s standard – ridiculous. Believe Bridesmaid. Quarter Queen. Backyard Bottomslash. Sherlock had half-a-mind to surrender this search for the Detective L but the intrigue clung to him.

 The third case was a spree of mass grand theft auto of custom Lamborghinis across Los Angeles.

 All the cases had been recently solved. The first case the culprit was a Coleen Singer of Minnesota. The second, a Beyond Birthday also known as Rue Ryuzaki, no such location of origin was given. A Leroy Georgia of Washington committed the third and final case. The second case seeming more suspicious, covert and more violent than the others, maybe The Mute Man (as Sherlock had dubbed him) had meant for something more of that kind? The former and latter cases were a lot more high profile fitting the businessman look that Sherlock had deduced from Mute Man. However, something more elusive as the second case would fit a more elusive detective as what L seemed to be.

 Holmes moved onto more pressing matters, at least to him. Why would a detective go about with just a letter as his name? Was that the name given at his birth? Was that a codename? Was that a nickname?

 “Ahem…”

 So many questions drifted around his head, so many he couldn’t solve. The fact he did not know the answers did, to put it most bluntly, _piss him off_. His irritable mood would affect the case Lestrade was currently relying on him for.

 “Ahem… Sherlock”

 Sherlock sat there defiantly ignoring his name summons. He had more pressing matters to attend too, more pressing matters to think about that whatever is John’s latest whim.

 “Sherlock.”

 There it was again. Louder. Irritating. More irritating than the ache he felt over not knowing answers, he felt he should have figured out by now.

 “What John?” There he caved.

 “Lestrade needs to speak to us. Urgent. He is waiting in the café”

 Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat and scarf from around the back of the chair and placed them on his person. Sighing, he urged John to lead on. He didn’t know the way to this café.

 “What’s the time?” Sherlock called, having noticed the considerable darkening of the sky.

“8:30, Sherlock how long have you been in the lab?”

 “That doesn’t matter, John. Where is this café?”

 

* * *

 

In a plush hotel, within downtown LA, the concierge still had not been able to get over such an unusual request at 7am that morning. An elderly gentleman, with a debit card that seemed to be literally made up of gold, had requested 500 chocolate-coated strawberries. As far as he was well aware, there was only the elderly man and his grandson up there! Five hundred chocolate-coated strawberries, to the penthouse and to be delivered a soon as can possibly take. To top it all off, they weren’t even in season, he tutted at such a request.

 Nevertheless, the gentleman had insisted. So, there he was, with various spare members of the kitchen staff, dipping these strawberries into chocolate. They had worked like a conveyer belt, systematically. Thus, the job was done within three hours.

 The trip to be penthouse was almost an adventure. He stood at lead, behind him eleven bellmen pushing serving trollies out from the elevator and to the penthouse door. They followed him, much like a luxury version of the rats that followed the Pied Piper. He knocked on the door swiftly once he had approached.

 “Come in.” came a deep, masculine voice.

 He pushed the door open and inside he saw a rather tall, lanky, younger fellow. He had scruffy black unkempt hair. His clothes hang off him, two or three sizes too big. They were simple. A white, long-sleeved t-shirt. A pair of boot cut, baggy jeans. The man lifted hip his left foot to itch his right shin. The room had been changed around since he’d last been up here with the previous guests. There was an extra table stacked with paper, folders of work piled on top looking as if it was about to fall. A strong smell of sugar cane overcame him, especially when he had noticed a silver platter of sugar cubes laid next to a singularly mug of what he presumed to be coffee. Crumbled paper and what looked like to be police casework folders littered the floor. As he entered, he heard a slight crunch of what he thought to be sugar underneath his shoe.

 “Please leave them around the desk.” The voice of the young man seemed monotone, almost void of emotion. His eyes though, gave away his excitement as he saw the trays and trays of strawberries carefully presented on the silver platters amongst the trolleys.

 The bellmen obeyed, as the strange man turned and climbed on the desk chair. The concierge noted that neither the desk nor the chair had been provided from the hotel company, and wondered briefly how they got up here. He noted the iMac that sat in the middle of the desk, whirring noisily.

 The man’s iPhone sounded as he began to form his unique position upon the chair. He lent forward to read it as the screen illuminated. A nosy bellman had been maneuvering his trolley around the desk, as the beginning of the message caught his eye on the phone.

 

_iMessage_

_Matt: Sherlock Holmes seems to be looking for you from his base within Lond-_

 

 “Please leave.”

 

* * *

 

John noticed that Sherlock had ignored every single word of what Lestrade had said within the café. He had also noticed the ignored mug of tea, which his flat mate had requested, and the ignored Belgium bun – that John had requested. John thought Sherlock seemed to be almost on autopilot, he seemed so caught up in a case. The case with the young girl however, John would give a three on the important scale. So he assumed it wasn’t this he was caught up with.

 As they climbed out of the cab and headed into their flat, Sherlock threw himself at the sofa, landing on his back.

 “What is bothering you Sherlock? It’s not the case is it? It’ll be solved by morning when that hair analysis goes through”

 “Hair analysis? What? No. There was a man in here yesterday. A mute one.”

 “I presume with a case?”

 “Well done John! Yes, a case! He left me a cryptogram, it’s solved on the table over there” Sherlock through his hand up, vaguely indicating an unhelpful direction.

  Sherlock sighed as John climbed out of the chair he had crumpled into and the heavy footwork stopped at the table.

  “Find the detective L? Surely that’s easy! Just look in the yellow pages and give him a ring!”

 Sherlock sighed again with annoyance. “Look in the yellow pages,” he muttered angrily. He did that this morning, on a hunch, and was proven wrong. This L was a stubborn person to find. The fact that he himself had not heard of, whilst his brother had, irked him, it was almost soul destroying. Sherlock was almost positive the detective took up cases internationally and wasn’t based within one place, like him. That would make him easier to find. The cases in LA seemed to be solved. If Sherlock was to fly out there, he was certain he would find him. However with a solved case, the detective was likely to move on, out of LA.

  “Sherlock, he has a Wikipedia page.”

 John didn’t think he would see Sherlock sit up with such force in a long while. It seemed that Sherlock hadn’t thought of looking for a Wikipedia page. It was concise, but most of the page was littered with theory, nothing was cold, hard facts. John doubted its integrity. He regularly changed Sherlock’s Wikipedia page for a laugh when he was drunk and angry with his flat mate. He doubted Sherlock even noticed.

  “Read it to me”

  Sherlock was poised in his ‘mind-palace position’, John noted. He scanned the first paragraph and began to read it out “The Detective L is an almost fictional character if not for military, Interpol and international police forces vouching for his existence. There is no information on whether the detective L is either man or woman. No information is also known about L’s age, race or whereabouts although L is known to travel regularly. L has never left a case unsolved and runs under several aliases to keep the identity a mystery. L will not accept a case unless over one million British pound is at stake or over ten people have been murdered… It continues, Sherlock, but definitely becomes more shady after this part.”

 Sherlock had indeed narrowed down the cases in LA of which would interest this overly elusive detective. The mass grand theft auto was definitely had over £1million at stake, he had noted that a number of custom Lamborghinis most absolutely hit over that target. The same was with the stolen painting. The murder case, although strange and ‘right up his street’ as Mrs. Hudson would say, did not seemed to fit L’s criteria unless of course, it was an unstated personal matter. He began to visualize the news article he had discovered yesterday, that first suggested L was in LA.

  “Sherlock… quick get over here! I think you need to see this.”

  Sherlock stumbled over towards his laptop, which John had been typing on, only to be greeted with a white screen with a singular, gothic style L in the dead center. Sherlock and John exchanged a look. The green light that acknowledges a webcam in use, flicked on.

   “Mr. Holmes,” A computerized, robotic voice emanated loudly from the laptop speakers “I have intelligence that you have been looking for me.”


	3. A Move in The Right Direction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! sorry for the long long wait on this, I had to finish my degree and graduate and then I got myself a really jam packed action trilled sales role, but luckily this has calmed down a lot, and after taking a break to slow myself down a bit - here it is! 
> 
> Warnings: Very brief mention of suicide within this, this won't happen at all. Mentions of violence, cyber terrorism and actual terrorism.
> 
> I'll try to post the next one ASAP! Getting back my mojo with this big time!

#  **“Mr. Holmes,” A computerized, robotic voice emanated loudly from the laptop speakers “I have intelligence that you have been looking for me.”**

Sherlock sat in disbelief as his eyes glazed over with thought as the gothic style L on the laptop screen stared into his very soul. John narrowed his eyes a little as he began to wave his hand in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock blinked twice.

“Yes, I have been informed that my presence can come across as a bit… of a shock. However, I must urge you to cease searching for myself. But, as they say, ‘he who moves first, always wins’ – you will not win this, Sherlock Holmes” Within each word, an audible chew and chomp echoed from the speaker, humanizing such an electronic presence. That nerved Sherlock, as ‘L’ had the guts to eat and chew whilst threatening him? It shows confidence but it also shows ‘L’ is rather too comfortable where he is. Sherlock had a temporary fantasy of a sneak attack. He snapped his eyes forward, as he watched the life drain from the laptop in front of him. Perhaps ‘L’ was comfortable because of his aggressive attack, he thought, frustration, anger and various other emotions connoting rage baring into him. He tried to suppress the emotion, forcing himself to his mind palace briefly in order to think more logically.

“What did he just do, Sherlock?” John uttered in disbelief, pressing random keys on the laptop hoping to produce a reaction - it didn’t, as Sherlock muttered something about an entity killing his laptop, as he grabbed John’s from the other side of the desk. Quickly guessing the password within five attempts and raising an eyebrow at John for having such a sultry password as he was permitted pass the log in page. He opened up their Internet network settings, checking whether or not L reached his laptop via his local connection.

“Was that the detective, Mute Man sent you to find? He made contact first, Jesus, Sherlock what did you do? What will he win?”

“Nothing John, that was the point. A few web searches, nothing concrete – or so I thought, I must have been close, otherwise why else would he make contact? I was close to finding L” Sherlock speculated, although that soon had turned to angry muttering when he found little in the way of evidence that anyone had hacked into their broadband. This ‘L’ character was apparently rather untraceable. Sherlock leaned back and watched John dip into a Cadbury’s Milk Tray, without even looking at what chocolate is what… savage. Of course, Sherlock knew them all by shape, he’d often sneak a few when John wasn’t looking and he didn’t have a case. Who’d blame him? He was often on the verge of starvation after completing such a long, drawn out case. Much he suspected this one would be. Apparently finding the ‘detective L’ is a lot harder than he originally planned, on the other hand, perhaps ‘L’ could just find him again? How do you bait a computerised voice?

“How’d he do it then? The funky ‘L’ symbol on the screen? Scare tactics? My god, Sherlock! Are you scared?” John uttered, popping a caramel heart into his mouth.

“They must have been in the vicinity when this happened. Someone hacking into the whole network would have triggered Mycroft’s alerts….” Sherlock swallowed, “’L’ must know our Wi-Fi password.”

“I don’t even know our Wi-Fi password.” John uttered, disgraced at the thought. Feeling rather violated to be quite honest. Not that he’d admit that, he was much more comfortable with face to face combat, hand to hand as it were. Not this cyber terrorism bollocks, this was much better on the television screen, or far far into the future. As long as it was far away from him, he thought. John laid back into his leather office chair, stared at Sherlock clearly within his mind palace, probably trying to work out how on earth ‘L’ was in the vicinity to learn of his Wi-Fi password when they had learnt of his existence within the last 24 hours. To put it more affront, John was bloody cheesed off with his case. They had no solid leads, and they can’t even find a guy that can find them! He glanced out of the window, watching the cars drive past, watching them park. Laughing to himself about a red haired, probably rebellious teenager flouncing up the street in goggles. Goggles, and he paired them with stripes, Lord almighty. Shaking his dead he turned back to watch Sherlock, and flinched when he met eye contact.

“Sherlock?”

“They must be within the area of our router. They must be. What IP addresses do you have connected to my laptop there?”

“This laptop is dead, Sherlock. We just watched L kill it off” John bluntly replied. Sherlock for a second looked confused before it all fell back into place, and quickly began typing on his own. John got up from his chair, back clicking slightly from the lounging position and strolled over to Sherlock and read the screen. “What does all of this mean Sherlock? The numbers? With the dots?”

“IP Addresses. Devices connected to the internet via us. Honestly, where have you been living these past years? Under a rock?”

At this point, John began to wonder why they were even flat mates to begin with. He was definitely the idiot on that matter. But the thrill of it, he thought smiling outwardly. “So four devices? That’s right isn’t it? My laptop, your laptop and our phones. So you’re wrong. Admit it!”

“John, my laptop is dead. It’s definitely not connected to the router.” John snapped up, his eyes darting to the gun he had hidden under the sofa cushion a few meters away. Sherlock jumped up out of his chair, leaned to the door seemly checking for people. He called to Mrs. Hudson querying if anyone unwanted was within the building. Naturally, there wasn’t. John darted back to his office chair, and leaned once more out of the window. Nothing suspicious with the cars parked outside, that redhead though, the one he spotted earlier with the goggles. He had placed himself on the garden wall of the house opposite, kicking his heels into it as he played on a handheld console. John narrowed his eyes, and the redhead looked up and John could have sworn he winked at him before playing his game again. He deserved a bloody anti-social behavior order. He’ll talk to Lestrade about that in the morning.

“Nothing out here Sherlock, just some ASBO kid playing a game on Mr. Johnson’s wall.” He sighed turning back before realizing that Sherlock wasn’t in the flat. He called. No answer. He called once more. He didn’t know why he bothered, he noted Sherlock’s coat and scarf had gone. Assuming Sherlock was within the coat and scarf, he flounced himself into his arm chair, it was getting late anyway, he could do with a nap. As he closed his eyes though, he heard someone clearing their throat. John cracked his left eye open. Mycroft propped up and leaning on his umbrella, tailored suit probably costing way more than John has ever had the opportunity to earn in his entire life. Shoes, Italian leather, shiny, newly polished. Hell, John thought, Mycroft even smelled expensive.

“I’ve come to talk to Sherlock about the detective ‘L,’” Mycroft half huffed to himself, knowing he’d have to do this in person but he could had been doing literally a thousand other things. He had a Russian war to prevent and no one dare utter the words ‘terror’ any more. Especially in the current climate. Criminals and terrorists kept him in the job but sometimes when it came to these family matters of lecturing his younger brother (which in his own opinion, was a full time profession), he definitely believed that if he had a button to either gain a triple chocolate fudge cake, or rid the world of criminals – he’d do it. Regardless of the consequences, or his pressing hunger.

“He’s ran out. ‘L’ broke my laptop and now he’s on a mini hunt. Couldn’t have gone far, apparently their within Wi-Fi range,” John returned closing his eye once more “Forgive me Mycroft, it’s pretty late and I don’t think I’m going to get much sleep when he comes back.” Mycroft hummed in response and carefully placed himself within Sherlock’s armchair. Noting how comfortable it was and how he’d be out of it within minutes as Sherlock couldn’t be anymore than 70 meters away. Wi-Fi range, he chuckled to himself. Sherlock would come to no harm, Mycroft had hidden cameras everywhere and a hundred people to watch them. He knew no one was within the building at least and his car outside will keep majority of intruders away, or at least the armed personnel within the car will. He thought perhaps he would also get one moment to briefly take forty winks and close his eyes, until at least he heard Sherlock take the stairs, two at a time.

“Mycroft”

“Sherlock”

“Why are you here?”

“Sherlock, please don’t look for this detective. He’s under protection from the UN. You wouldn’t find him anyway. It’s impossible, I’ve tried it myself. No one knows what he looks like. He doesn’t even have a lawyer. He just hacks into government PC’s to relay messages or has a handler bring in a laptop. You’ve experienced his voice trick; we can’t decode that either. Actually, I admit, I hired someone out to look for him a few years back. They’ve never been found. He’s on our side, but he’s ruthless. You wouldn’t stand a chance.” Sherlock acknowledged Mycroft briefly as Mycroft finished uttering his speech. Longest lecture he’s had since his last cocaine fix had been caught out. Sherlock however, always took bait to argue back and retaliate to his brother. It was childish but he always wanted to win, “Actually I don’t have to find him. He’ll find me.” Sherlock said smugly. Nothing giving away his plan, but none the less he heard Mycroft’s sigh and then his protest, and the Mycroft’s protest that Sherlock hadn’t replied. John sighed in chair, he’d never catch a good 20-minute nap in between two brothers bickering, so he snuck off to bed.

* * *

 

The next day John ventured down the staircase, hopefully heading in the direction of the shower, as he hadn’t quiet woken up yet and caught himself a rare glimpse of Sherlock actually sleeping on a case. He chuckled to himself, his body must have caught up with him. Heading into the bathroom, the sound awoken Sherlock who resumed his web search. Sherlock had taken it to heart that he would follow ‘L’, however to do that he must find out where he’s heading to next and thus began plan A; find a case that ‘L’ would pick. Sherlock already recalled the parameters if that Wikipedia page was correct:

1\. More than a million British pound sterling was at stake

_And/or_

2\. More than ten people had died

Sherlock also added a third category, assuming ‘L’ was much of a genius as himself he would also be attracted to the cases that are different, interesting. Ones that are almost alive, ones that actually require thinking. The case dubbed as ‘LABB’ didn’t have ten murders, or a million pounds at stake – but it did have intrigue or even personal reason. Sherlock thought of adding even a forth category, for cases personal to 'L' himself, that is of course, he'd been assuming 'L' is a man the whole time, he alas, could be female, or genderless, perhaps even an alien. He haltered on the train of thought and began a global search for a ‘Beyond Birthday’. He must have existed somewhere, a paper trail. Perhaps one that has leaked online. His search however was in vein. Suspiciously there was 0 searches on google for ‘Beyond Birthday’ as seeing as just yesterday they read a news report with his name. Sherlock began to engage a little more, huffing in frustration. Whoever ‘L’ was, he was clever. Probably far superior than either him or Mycroft, although Sherlock thought, neither of them would ever admit that out loud. ‘L’ had successfully evaded him once more. Well, there went plan B.

_"Come quickly St. Bart’s._  
_Lestrade."_

_“On my way,_  
_SH.”_

_“You might want to hurry,_  
_The hair sample we found?_  
_We found who it is._  
_Lestrade.”_

_“I’ll grab John,_  
_SH.”_

_“Hurry, he had his tongue cut out._  
_He’s on suicide watch,_  
_Lestrade”_

“John, we’re needed at St Bart’s!”  
  



	4. A Brief Bit of Progression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot apologise enough for how bad I am at updating this. No excuses from me! Hope you enjoy :)

#  **St. Barts was always a tad depressing, Lestrade thought.**

As a policeman, he always ended up there for the entirely wrong reasons. Not that there are right reasons to enter a hospital. They were almost, always bad reasons. He sat next to a fellow officer, who for security reasons was handcuffed to the patient, a Franklin Masters of 42 Bowe Street. The hair sample had come through with some DNA. Franklin Masters had a burglary a few years back and gave his DNA to rule himself out. Naturally, they kept it on file, Franklin probably didn’t even realize, or remember. When Lestrade got his house, they had found him knocked out on the floor, tongue cut out and all. It was a fairly gruesome scene. One he had hoped to never quite come across again. Certainly not one he wanted to see on a Thursday morning.

Nurses flitted in and out, and the occasional doctor looked up as they prepared to sedate Franklin. The patient had tried to escape twice already, and dived for several pieces of medical equipment – hence the need for the handcuffs. Franklin himself, kept looking around with panicked eyes, frustrated to be unable to communicate when he had so much to say. The room itself was very sterile. The police sat together on white plastic arm chairs, their feet tapping on the tiled floor. They were situated in a private room, due to the nature of the case. They had also attracted a lot of attention from the hospital staff. Lestrade thought he saw people walk past the windows and slow down for a good, decent look. He got up and lowered the white blinds. At least he could afford to give the man some privacy even if he is a number one suspect to a murder investigation. Lestrade wondered how the court case would go, juries are usually very harsh when there are children involved, with the victim being sixteen it wouldn’t be easy for Franklin.  

Lestrade slumped on his chair, wondering if it was an appropriate time to grab a coffee.

“Ah, Mute man.” Sherlock propped himself on the door frame and inclined his head towards Franklin. Lestrade crumpled up his face, as did John.

“Sherlock!” they coursed. Apparently what he said wasn’t reasonable, Sherlock wondered, as pieces of this jigsaw appeared. He was rather annoyed he didn’t get the whole picture, was the murder of the girl yesterday related to the L case? Boy, this got interesting. Franklin looked at Holmes with recognition, and a little bit of hope, Sherlock thought he saw. Interesting emotion for him to be exhibiting.

“Wait... is this the man that came over with the cryptogram?” John mused as he watched the patient drift unconscious, he flicked through the notes he’d taken from the bedside when the nurse wasn’t looking. Sherlock made a noise which sounded like an affirmation.

“What cryptogram?” Lestrade blurted, more than thoroughly confused. “You know this man?”

The nurse said something about speaking about someone as if they weren’t present as she whipped the needle out of the IV, and snatched the notes back from John. Sherlock was still standing in the doorway, eyes vacant. John took this as an opportunity to fill Lestrade in on what had gone on these past few days. Lestrade had more than a few outbursts shouting about cybercrime and infiltration, as the police officer next to him sat wide eyed and paling. This was way over his head.

“Who’re you?” Sherlock snapped at the new police officer, halting the story as John got the part where Mycroft turned up. Lestrade made the introductions, knowing full well, Sherlock would forget in about 10 minutes. Or well, delete the memory. He scoffed, at least John was polite as the guys shook hands.

Lestrade then went on to fill them both in on what happened earlier. Starting off with the results from the DNA, to the raid, to them winding up here. He’d had one heck of a morning. He could do with a coffee, maybe something stronger if he had less morals.

“He didn’t do it.” Sherlock announced. The new police officer actually deadpanned, as Lestrade and John snapped their heads in consulting detective’s direction.

“What do you mean he didn’t do it, Sherlock? His DNA was at the crime scene! One of his own hairs!” Lestrade sat on his plastic chair, defeated.

“This man is very precise, when he turned up in my apartment all his moves where measured. He wasn’t careless, he wouldn’t toss the murder weapon to the side. He also wouldn’t kill with hand to hand combat, look at his hands! They’ve never seen work, let alone battle. He’s just someone’s lacky. He wouldn’t be that thoughtless.”

“So, if he didn’t do it who did?” John said, he hoped Sherlock would have noticed it was a rhetorical question.

Alas, he didn’t.

“Probably the same man who cut his tongue out”

Everyone in the room except from Sherlock cringed.

 

* * *

 

John stood in the kitchen of 221b, making himself a little ham sandwich. Of course, he’d offered one to Sherlock but he refused. He did think about making him one anyway or even saving him a quarter. He no longer worried about Sherlock not eating enough, he’d be living with him for two years and by this point wondered how long his best mate could go without eating. Not that he’d say that out loud, he’d probably end up with severe malnutrition. They’d come home from the hospital, after the doctor declared the patient not fit to defend himself quite yet, and found Mycroft had left a new laptop to replace the one L decided to destroy yesterday. Apparently, specialists in Mi5 themselves put heighted security onto the thing, making it untraceable. John didn’t see the point, if Sherlock would take that as a challenge he was damn sure L would too. He didn’t want another cyber attack.

As he reached to grab a plate from the cupboard, he screamed when he found bits of what he prayed wasn’t whole human toes in varying states of decay placed around the plates.

“Sherlock!” John bellowed. “Near the bloody plates! We eat off those”

Sherlock who was dragging himself from his bedroom, to the sound of ruckus – naturally hoping for some commotion, sighed. There was no point trying to explain to John for the umpteenth time that his experiments needed to be in varying parts of the kitchen because Bart’s morgue wouldn’t allow him to do it there. Regardless of how he manipulated Molly, he acknowledged she’d never agree with him. He needed his own lab of course, and he already had the funds from his cases but it made him smile secretly as he terrorized John. He felt that every time John did something to irate him, he’d retaliate and the plan was going smoothly, as usual.

He opened the shiny new laptop still stuck with the plastic protectors on, and popped open his emails. Maybe another small case to get his brain thinking a bit more swiftly, he didn’t want to admit he was stumped quite on this case. How did everything relate? The consulting detective just couldn’t quite match the pieces together yet. To be brutally honest, he wasn’t even sure they matched up completely. His emails did not help. It was mostly junk mail that had avoided his junk box. He flicked open John’s emails, but nothing was interesting on there either. Restaurant vouchers and love letters. He leaned back in his chair and watched John flick the television on.

“Boy’s! You got some letters!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried up the stairs and through their open front door. Both of the flat mates could hear each of her padded foot steps as she ventured up the stairs in her slippers.

“I’m not your land lady and I’m certainly not your post man” she smiled. She didn’t mind helping them out occasionally, both of the men certainly knew that. She mothered them, just a little too much, John believed. He had certainly gotten fatter from all the biscuits with his tea. John got up from his chair to get the mail. He heard Sherlock mutter something about useless bills.

John smiled and thanked Mrs. Hudson as she waltzed off to make them all some tea. “Don’t forget the biscuits!” he had shouted back in return. It was pointless, Sherlock scoffed. She never forgot the biscuits.

It was at this point with his military precision and an once of boredom he picked up one of the few envelopes addressed to Sherlock and launched it at his head. He hit him square in the cheek. John basked in victory.

Sherlock turned his head and raised his eyebrow, not even addressing the fallen mail, “Can you refrain from throwing the utility bills at me, John?” John however, smirked at Sherlock’s exasperated look. That was for the toes, he thought smugly.

He went to pick up the bill he threw at Sherlock, discarding the bills and junk mail onto the coffee table for later when either one of them was bored enough to get around to sort later. The doctor firmly believed he’d be the one doing it, though. He plopped the envelope of the floor and onto the laptop Sherlock was using, since it was addressed to him after all. Handwritten too. Fancy-like. Both men secretly prayed it wasn’t Mycroft inviting them to another dinner, or god forbid another Ball.

Sherlock opened the envelope lazily, although slightly intrigued. He was using his left hand to feel inside, in case of anything too nasty. Don’t want a repeat of getting anthrax through the front door again, he thought. He opened the envelope with his right hand and pulled out the thick, expensive yellowing paper.

“Sorry about the mess. Mr. Master’s annoyed me slightly and now I’ve halted your search for L. Find him for me”

In his detective mode, he noticed the same handwriting from the note Mute Man had left him earlier in the week. He couldn’t wait until this man finally made an appearance. Of course, he could look for him, himself. But the detective was far too involved in the hunt for L. Looks like the man didn’t even bother with a cipher this time. Sherlock was horrendously disappointed. That took half the fun away. He handed the note over to John and got back to his latest mission, finding L. He hadn’t actually gotten anywhere of course. Even when he managed to get into Interpol’s server he had only found snippets of when L had addressed them. They hadn’t even kept transcripts. Who doesn’t keep transcripts? He did however notice they spoke of an old man who carried around the equipment L used to when he addressed them. Sherlock believed that to be his current greatest lead, although potentially  a useless one at that.

John however, had his feathered ruffled again. Sherlock was literally getting orders from snail mail. He was caught in between asking Lestrade for handwriting analysis or demanding Mycroft find out who delivered it. He could even use the CCTV he naturally had placed outside the flat. He settled on texting both people and reached for his phone, heading back to his forgotten sandwich.

 

* * *

 

 

A redhead sat in Speedy’s café with far more computer equipment than he should have brought with him, essentially three MacBooks, and an iPad. He would attract too much attention to himself, he thought, not that he cared. He reached up and took his googles off the top of his head and lowered them over his eyes. He’d been monitoring all activity from the devices in 221b all day. He’d read several text messages, all useless, and remote viewed some emails, also useless. If he didn’t have the leather cladded blond sitting next to him or his video games to keep him amused, he probably wouldn’t be here. The old lady behind the counter was rather pleasant, he smiled as she gestured for a refill on his coffee, and she pottered over to do so. He minimized the screen, definitely not wanting her to know he’s spying on her neighbor. She also brought with her yet another chocolate bar for his friend. She smiled and made useless conversation. He never was the talkative type so he left all the conversation to Mello. He was building quite the rapport. The older lady really enjoyed the company of the blond. He found that almost inconceivable.

Finding an opportune time to flick open his remote viewing again, whilst she was distracted, he found a turn in the fates. The detective was getting closer by finding Wammy, even if he didn’t know who he was, or how important he was. Matt wasn’t too happy with his.

_iMessage_

_L,_

_We have a problem. He’s diverted from you, onto Watari. What’s the call of action?_

_Matt_


	5. A Step Forward, and Three Leaps Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm 100% getting back into this now. Enjoy :))

#  **John sat, bewildered watching Sherlock mentally attempt to put the puzzle together.**

 A few years ago, he’d have given up. Now he had more of a twinge of determination in him. Grabbing Sherlock’s fancy fountain pen, and rough notebook, he tried his own memory techniques: writing it down. He had plenty of time to kill, especially before Lestrade had a spare few minutes to pop round and collect the note for analysis, and Mycroft was already checking the CCTV.

It took more than a few minutes to piece together what he knew in a scribbled down timeline; he’d hand it to Sherlock later knowing fair well that he was researching L every spare minute of his day. Perhaps he’ll even add to it, he pondered.

_Wednesday 8:21am (according to Sherlock):_

  1. _Man (now known as Franklin, or Mute Man) walks in and hands Sherlock the cryptogram_
  2. _Sherlock solves it, someone is asking us to find L_



_Wednesday 12:30/1pm:_

  1. _Body of young girl found outside her own house roughly around 10am, we got there around 12:30_
  2. _Nail found in proximity matching cause of death_



_Wednesday 2pm-8:30pm:_

  1. _Sherlock completes hair analysis from hair found on the body in Bart’s lab_



_Wednesday 9pm onwards:_

  1. _Found L on Wikipedia_
  2. _L hacked laptop and destroyed Sherlock’s laptop_
  3. _Mycroft attempted to intervene against finding L_
  4. _L in Wi-Fi range?_



_Thursday morning:_

  1. _DNA found within the hair analysis, turned out to be one, Franklin Masters_
  2. _Raid on Franklin’s home, found him unconscious_
  3. _Franklin is kept sedated at the hospital, was he framed?_



_Thursday Afternoon:_

  1. _Letter shows up, turns to be note apologizing for Franklin’s condition. Is it a threat?_



 

“You’re missing a bunch of information.” A monotone voice said over his shoulder. Somehow, John had managed to immerse himself so fully, he didn’t notice the detective venture over to see what he was working on. Sherlock flipped over the note pad to a new page and began to write quite elegantly the information he’d found out about L. Or at least, the information he could find, he had little knowledge on whether or not it was factual. He wrote down: what type of cases L usually went for, about the man Interpol claims to see him with, that he was last believed to be in LA and then went into a little more depth, he clearly loves to win, thinks of things as more as a game, perhaps he’s childish, fights dirty and uses a voice modifier. He then wrote down more elaborate things, that he deduced but he couldn’t know for certain.

            John, having never actually seen Sherlock being so helpful, bounced back after an initial shock. In little over 24 hours, they had actually amassed a giant vat of information on such an elusive character. Clearly, there is a link between the man who wants Sherlock to find L and the murdered victim. Perhaps they worked together, perhaps they were related? DNA would rule whether or not, but going through the proper channels took more time than it should. Lestrade had insisted about having the remainder of the analysis done by the forensics team. Sherlock threw a small tantrum but John knew this had to eventually go to court. Thus, having to do this the long way round. The doctors phone buzzed, breaking his chain of thought.

_“The letter was delivered by the usual postman,_  
 _I’ll have someone look into it further._  
 _MH_ ”

“Well, there is yet another dead end,” he sighed to Sherlock, as he tossed his phone away from him, “The postman delivered the letter himself, they’d have a hard time trying to find the post box it was put in originally, yet alone who did it”

            Sherlock huffed in return. He was still scoffing the audacity that John had to write down the past few days into a timeline. Conspiratorially, he did find that writing the information down was slightly helpful. It was beneficial to aiding the process of cementing the particulars into his mind palace. He would never admit that to anyone, especially John. The consulting detective then returned to the various google searches he was doing. He’d was debating hacking into Mi5 or the CIA to see if they had files on L, although he was pretty sure he could just pull up a favor from Mycroft for them both. Whether he’d do it or just give him false information was another question. His mind briefly flickered to finding the girls real murderer, but he knew that was a waste of his time. Especially, when finding L was turning out to be far more exciting. His focus, straight back onto the only man he could find directly connected to L. The mysterious figure who carried around his equipment.

 

* * *

 

            Lestrade sat in his office, slumped in his chair at Scotland Yard. He’d just back from talking to the deceased young girl’s parents. They were distraught. It was a major downside for his job. One hand brushed through his hair, and then went to toying with his wedding ring. He couldn’t image what he’d do if his child had been murdered. Thankfully, he didn’t have any children for him to be too worried about. He sifted through the pile of papers on his desk absentminded; armed robbery, hit and run and general assault. At least he could delegate these to the lower ranks as he worked on the murder. And also, working out why Sherlock believes the main suspect was framed. Once again he believed himself to be rather fortunate in meeting Sherlock Holmes, and even more about their unorthodox predicament where he’d essentially solve crimes for him. Highest success rates in the whole area, he chuckled to himself, he had all the confidence in Sherlock. Although he did admit to himself, he found he was thinking that far to regularly.

 

* * *

 

“We’re missing something,” Sherlock hadn’t spoken for a good three to four hours, and by doing so, startled John. “Read me that timeline again.” John did so, attaching more of the detective’s research into L into the right places, attempting to give Sherlock the whole picture.  When he’d finished, Sherlock asked again.

“We’re definitely missing something.” John nodded in agreement. The information they had in front of them was certainly not the whole picture. Just how many different individual parties had gotten involved? So far they had the people who want to find L, themselves and L. John assumed L had a number of people working with him as well. He certainly couldn’t have flown from Los Angeles to London in the amount of time they went from finding out he existed, to frying Sherlock’s laptop – however remotely it was done. Assuming, L was in LA to begin with. They still had no idea who really murdered that girl either.

Sherlock muttered something about his homeless network as he grabbed his coat and pulled on his scarf. John mentioned something about going with him, subsequently he heard himself telling his flat mate to go to bed. It was getting late after all, the sun had long since set and was nearly at the peak of summer. It had to be getting close to 11pm. He crept down the stairs as to not wake Mrs. Hudson from her beauty sleep. He never wanted that lecture again, certainly it wasn’t one he was deleting in a hurry. He was even conscientious enough to close the front door quietly, barely making a sound in the process.

Heading down Baker Street and towards Portland Square, where he had stationed a number of his homeless network, especially the ones secretly on his payroll. He certainly valued their resourcefulness and quite frankly, believed that he would be rather restricted upon the information he had access to without them. Fortunately, his brisk walk landed himself in front of just the man. Samuel, 26, seeming to have a weird fascination with watching the council workers, government employees and bizarrely, refuse workers and postmen.

Fetching a £50 note out of his wallet and holding it in front of Samuel’s face, “Which postman delivered the post today? Was he the usual one? Anything suspicious?”

Sherlock watched him think through his day intently. He always analysed his homeless network closely. Although they were loyal to him, they were also homeless, desperate for money. These people could be easily brought out.

“It was the usual man, I believe. Nothing suspicious, kept checking his phone though. Probably scored himself a new girl.”

“How often did he check his phone?”

“Probably around five times in the five minutes I saw him.  He was looking around a lot too.”

The consulting detective handed the younger man the £50 note, who grabbed it eagerly. He thanked Sherlock profusely. As he always did. Samuel was cocooned in a mass of grey and black blankets which were fraying at the edges, and he was in dire need of a shave and a hair cut. His big toe was poking out of his old black converse shoes which were incredibly well worn in. Sherlock made a mental note to buy him some new ones for Christmas. He certainly deserved them.

 

* * *

 

            John couldn’t sleep, he kept tossing and turning. Inherently, this was not working. He briefly wondered whether he could use this to diagnose him as an insomniac before he declared himself stupid with sleeplessness. He slung himself out of his comfy bed, and hurled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Perhaps a warm milk would help, the doctor believed. He also acknowledged that if that didn’t work he’d down half a bottle of that expensive whiskey in the back of the cupboard that had been there long before he even moved in. Present from Mycroft, he presumed. Although Mycroft never struck him as much of a heavy drinker, he imagined him a pundit for fine whiskies.

            Sipping his milk as he paced the flat, he paused just shy of the window viewing Baker Street. Those kids were back again, the ASBO looking ones. Two this time, the redheaded boy was back with the red and black stripy jumper, and the luminous googles. This time he was with a blond, dressed head to toe in skin tight leather. His blond hair in a sort of feminine bob, John thought. Kids these days. He tutted, slurping loudly. He watched Sherlock slowly walk back up the road towards the front door, he thought he’d be back by now. But then again, Sherlock is always on his own schedule.

            Instantaneously the street below him sprang to life. The ASBO kids marched towards Sherlock, and a sleek black limousine pulled up next to him covering the view of Sherlock. In the reflection he thought he saw a fight, but he wasn’t too sure. He reached into his dressing gown pocket to bring out his phone, as he watched the kids jump into the back of the limousine as it drove off. Sherlock was not to be seen.

“Crap” John said out loud. Cursing frequently and spilling his milk onto the floor as he dropped his mug, he dialed Mycroft's number, who seemed to always pick up on the first ring, luckily.

“Mycroft, I think Sherlock’s been abducted.” John managed to pant out as he bolted out of the apartment, hoping to catch the direction of the limousine, or even a partial number plate. He cursed once again for not being observant enough to get it when it was directly in front of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
